


Aching

by overlycompensatedapprentice



Category: The Greatest Showman (2017)
Genre: Abuse, Angst, Angst with no happy ending, Child Abuse, Emotional Hurt, How Phillip got to the ballet, Hurt, Missing Scene, Other, Ouch, Past Phillip, Phillips parents are EVIL, Pre-circus Phillip, but not in this fic, eventually, well I guess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-22
Updated: 2018-03-22
Packaged: 2019-04-06 06:55:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14051418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/overlycompensatedapprentice/pseuds/overlycompensatedapprentice
Summary: I saw a post on Tumblr asking how Phillip got to the ballet performance where P.T. and Charity see him, and this is my take on it.Warning: Child Abuse





	Aching

“Phillip.” The voice behind him sent a chill down his spine. Had he done something wrong? That was the only thing that crossed his mind. It was all he could think about. He took another sip of his drink. 

“What do you want, mother?” He asked, not turning from the window, glass of whiskey his only comfort.

 

“Watch your tone.” His mother’s voice took on a hard edge, she walked over and took his left arm, turning him around more roughly than the situation called for. “Your father and I really do think it’s time for you to settle down, get married. There’s a ballet performance tonight, and Elizabeth May Johnson will be there with her parents. Your father and I are going and would like you to come along.”

Phillip resisted the urge to roll his eyes. That did not sound like a pleasant way to spend his evening. What he really wanted to do was pack his bags and flee the country. And he was not about to get married to some bratty upper class bully. Not if he could delay it for just a little longer. 

“Sorry, mother,” he said, turning back around to face the window. “But I have things to write for my plays. The producers are getting impatient.” 

He knows what’s coming when he says it. He just wished it didn’t have to be this way. 

As the blow struck the back of his head, Phillip Carlyle prayed to every divine entity that might be listening for an end to the constant pain. The constant aching. It had happened before, of course, hundreds of times, and Phillip had the scars to prove it. But he knew that there would be no end, but it was nice to dream. 

“That would be wonderful if you had any choice in the matter. Don’t turn your back on me!” His mother’s anger showed in her movements: she jerked his arm and twisted it in a way that it wasn’t meant to be twisted as she tried to force him around to face her. Phillip tried to muffle the cry of pain that escaped his lips as he whirled to face his mother. 

He said nothing, simply clutching his arm to his side as the pair stared at one another, his mother wanting him to apologize, him not obliging. 

“Well?” His mother asked. 

“What would you like me to say, mother?” Phillip said, a little anger creeping into his voice, to disguise the fear. His arm was still held to his side, holding it like he had a sling, he should have had a sling for his arm, but he knew he wasn’t going to be getting one. “I’m sorry.” 

“Phillip.” Another angry voice came from the doorway, it was his father’s this time. “You do not speak to your mother like that in this house.” 

Phillip almost didn’t see the cane before it struck him in his already injured arm, sending a spike of white hot pain through his entire body. He bit back a scream, He would not show weakness. His father didn’t allow that. 

The cane struck him again, in the back this time, and Phillip could hear the sharp crack as it struck his spine. He tried to stay on his feet. His good arm held the wall, trying to hold himself up. He would not show weakness. He could not show weakness. It would just make his beating worse.

“Remember your place,” His mother admonished, eyes flashing. “We’re leaving at seven-thirty sharp. And, by the way. I read the draft of your new play. The one that just went to the theatre. It’s awful.” 

She swept out of the room without another word to him.

His father followed, but not without pausing in front of his damaged child. “You will come to the performance, or you’ll wish you were dead. Your choice.” One more slap across Phillip’s face for good measure, and his father strode out of the room as well. 

Phillip was left with two choices: go to the ballet recital or wish he was dead. He knew his father would make good on his threat, so he chose to go to the gala. Though, deep down, if he faced it. His father didn’t have to do much to make him wish he was dead. 

At the recital, Phillip went through the motions, trying his best to conceal his injury. He mingled with the snobs, talked about all the boring things they wanted to talk about, was never without a glass of the free champagne in his hand. It was his one salvation. 

After the performance was over, Phillip watched out of the corner of his eye as one of the ballerinas, in Phillip’s opinion the best one on the stage, was teased, then ignored, by the rest of her peers. Phillip felt a twinge of sympathy as he saw the little girl lower her head, ashamed. He wished that he had the courage to tell the other girls to leave her alone. 

He took another glass of champagne as his mother beckoned him over. 

“Phillip, this is Betsy Johnson, Elizabeth’s mother. I’m sure you’ve met her. Betsy, this is my son, Phillip.” 

Mrs. Johnson extended her left hand to Phillip. “Mr. Carlyle, I love your plays, Eliza does too. Your last one was marvellous.” 

“Indeed, we’re very proud,” His mother said with a well-faked smile. To some, the hand lain on his injured arm might have been a show of pride, Mrs. Mary Carlyle showing the world that her son was destined to do great things. But Phillip knew the real reason. It was a warning. It said. Behave, or this arm will start hurting a lot more. Her words from earlier still echoed in Phillip’s head. 

He shook it with his injured arm, which screamed in protest. Phillip tried not to let it show. 

A waiter went by with more champagne. Phillip practically lunged for the tray and grabbed another flute. He downed it. Tried to numb the pain. 

Then, he felt eyes on him and glanced over, though it was nothing new. When he looked, he saw a blonde woman he recognized as Charity Hallett, no, Charity Barnum. The woman who’d run away to marry a man from the lower class. She had chosen love rather than be forced into an arranged marriage. Chosen happiness instead of a cage. 

Phillip had always admired her for that. 

He wanted nothing more than to do what she had done. Run off, see what was out there, live for once. 

But he could never do that. He knew he couldn’t. He knew that wherever he went, his parents would always haunt him. They would always find him. They would break him down until he was no more than dust. Ready to heed their every order. 

A voice snapped him out of his stupor. 

“...Tea on Saturday?” Mrs. Johnson was saying. “Elizabeth couldn’t come tonight, caught a bit of a cold, but I’m sure she’d love to see you, Phillip.” 

“We’d love to,” his mother answered for him. “Wouldn’t we, Phillip?” 

“Of course,” Phillip wormed his way away from her. “If you’ll excuse me for a moment, I’m going for a walk. Get some fresh air.” 

“Alright, dear,” his mother said calmly enough, but the underlying tone made her next words unnecessary. “Just don’t come back too late. You know how I worry.” And there it was. The threat. Not in words, but in tone, in movement, in the way she brushed his arm ever so slightly. 

Phillip just ran. The moment he was outside the stuffy hall he ran. He ran through back alleys and down narrow roads. In the back of his mind he thought maybe, if he ran fast enough, he could start to fly. Escape his parents. Escape it all. Then he’d finally be free.

Phillip Carlyle didn’t go home that night. 

He had a spare suit in the back of the carriage, enough to look presentable for the next night, when he was going to a showing of his play. Freedom for one more night. 

In the back of his mind he knew it was foolish, and would only end badly for him. But all he wanted was a taste of what Charity Barnum had. A taste of the freedom that Phillip was sure was even more addicting than the alcohol that churned in his stomach. 

Even more addicting than the thought that he, Phillip Carlyle, could be himself one day. It was a nice thing to believe, but futile nonetheless. Carlyles didn’t have that.


End file.
